by Alexis Angel
This arrangement is working better than I ever thought. What woman can say that they can have their cake and eat it, too?
Chapter 15
David
“Pass the tarts, please,” I say to Lord Whatnot sitting across me. It’s getting harder and harder to tell these fucking Lords apart. And I’m not disparaging women right now; I’m asking for an actual tart, one with lemon curd and a sprig of fucking lavender.
With Vivienne at my side, I can actually enjoy this fuckfest of a charity luncheon. Otherwise, I’d be bored to death. It also helps that she’s stroking my cock under the table.
She always anticipates my needs, that one. But, don’t worry—the tablecloths here are stain-resistant and durable. I read the label.
“Oh yes!” I cry out, and because someone has just rung the bell to announce the winner of another auction item, no one knows that I’m having an orgasm in my pants. For all they know, I’m just really enthusiastic about charity.
If we raise enough money from this luncheon and silent auction, we’ll be able to provide one hand job per week to every veteran in the whole fucking kingdom. Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist, I’m kidding—the money will be spent on things like medical equipment and care packages for the holidays.
For the record, the best gifts I received from civilians when I was in the military were nude photos. But maybe that’s just me.
“Could you pass me another napkin, love?” I ask Vivienne. “I think I’ve dropped some curd on my lap again.”
She smiles coquettishly and hands me a wad of paper napkins. I don’t have the heart to pass a cum-stained cloth napkin to the cute volunteers in candy-striped dresses who keep coming by to clear our dishes. That should be a sign of how much progress I’ve made.
Their dresses are surprisingly short, and damn, I could jerk off to those little white knee socks all day.
But, why would I need to? I have the most gorgeous arm candy. Vivienne is practically popping out of her pink cardigan, and in case anyone misses that, the pearls around her neck point straight down to her cleavage.
Her short pencil skirt is so tight, even I feel the squeeze it’s giving her. But to everyone else, she looks so fucking elegant that no one could possibly accuse her of trying too hard.
And she’s certainly not. Vivienne has a strength of character that I might have noticed sooner, had I not been holed up in my office, trying to fuck anyone with a pussy or suck my own cock.
She’s very conscious of her image—and mine—but I realize now that it’s not because she’s condescending. It’s because she wants to get along with everyone, regardless of their background or beliefs.
That’s why she can handle reporters and Kings with equal aplomb. Watching her do it makes me believe that I can do it, too.
“Your Majesty, I know you served in the military. How are you enjoying the fundraiser so far?” an elderly woman sitting next to Lord Whatnot asks. She’s a sweet little thing with crooked glasses and cookie crumbs on her sweater. This is my chance to prove to Vivienne that I can be civilized.
“It feels good to be needed again,” I reply. “I enjoy doing things that help others have a better life, and I haven’t gotten much of a chance since I left the military. Hopefully, we hit the amount we target so we can do what we had planned.” I give her a wink. “But even if we don’t, I think somehow I can cover the remaining amount, in case we fall short.”
I’m a fucking King; money is no object. The little old lady puts her hand on her heart and smiles. I turn to Vivienne to gauge her response and am pleased to see that she’s nodding at me in approval.
“Good answer,” she whispers in my ear. “You’ll get a reward for that.”
“What is it?” I whisper back.
Vivienne doesn’t answer. She simply reaches under the table, grabs my hand, and places it on her bare knee. It’s an invitation I can’t refuse.
I slide my hand up her thigh and under her skirt, reaching eagerly for whatever silky, lacy little item she’s wearing underneath.
Except there isn’t one. Instead, my fingers graze her soft, velvety bare skin. I gently trace her slit with my finger, beckoning her to open up to me.
When she’s wet and squirming beneath my touch, I ease one finger in—just to see if she likes it. Then, I look up at her face.
She’s holding her teacup in front of her and blowing on the surface to cool it down. Her expression gives nothing away, though her cheeks are flushed.
As the conversation continues all around us, she takes a sip, returns her teacup to its saucer, and lifts her teaspoon. She looks at me, and with great deliberation, she dips the spoon in the tea and swirls it around and around.
I might have a fucking heart attack right here and now. This is so fucking hot.
I continue what I was doing under the table, teasing and twirling her tight little pussy with my finger until her face tightens and relaxes once more.
“Are you alright, my dear?” Lord Whatnot asks her. She’s more than alright; she’s fucking glowing.
“I’ve never been better, my Lord,” she says. “Could you pass me the sausages?”
Oh, she’ll be getting a sausage, alright. But yes, the sausages on the plate in front of Lord Whatnot are delicious. I wouldn’t mind having another helping myself.
“Make that two,” I add.
Of all the things I’ve been blessed with—looks, money, power, an enormous cock—meeting Vivienne is without a doubt the best thing that has ever happened to me. Even if this is fake, she still knows how to surprise me, teasing my inner bad boy while making me look so fucking good to everyone else.
I mean, she did help me keep my elbows off the table just now.
Chapter 16
Vivienne
There is so much to do, I hardly know where to start. I’ve helped clients through weddings, of course, but this is the first time that I’ll be the bride and the PR consultant at the same time. Hopefully, it’ll also be the last.
Really, this should’ve never happened in the first place.
Charles can barely keep up with me as I race along the sidewalk. If I can get to the tailor to make an appointment for David’s tuxedo fitting while we’re out, I can text him the time of the appointment before he leaves to open a new session of parliament. Or is he presenting a citizen with an award?
I can’t remember. But whatever it is, it’s happening later today.
I stop at the tailor’s storefront and wait for Charles to catch up. I peek through the window.
On one side of the store, there’s a small collection of men’s suits that can be custom-made for special events. On the other, there’s an equally elegant collection of evening gowns.
But at the center of the showroom floor, a mannequin is modeling a jaw-droppingly gorgeous wedding dress. My heart flutters at the sight of it.
The dress has a long satin train, an off-the-shoulder neckline, and a fitted bodice that would hug me—I mean, a bride—in all the right places. Considering how expensive this place is, the beading was probably done by hand.
“You’ll need something to wear for the wedding,” a voice says. “Why don’t you try it on?”
I turn around and blush. Charles has caught up to me, and he’s been watching me drool all over this dress.
“I don’t think there’ll be time for that,” I argue half-heartedly. “I need to set an appointment for David first. Then, we’ll need to print the invitations, choose the floral arrangements…” I count the items on my to-do list until I run out of fingers.
“Oh, and in case you forgot, this isn’t even real. These appointments, my errands, are just proof to the press and the people that this is actually happening. Who knows if we’ll actually get to the real event?”
Charles stops me with his hand. “We have an entire staff dedicated to these ‘wedding’ plans.” He actually motions air-quotes with his hand as he says wedding. “But why don’t you let me make the appointment with the tailor? A
t the same time, you can try this dress on—and maybe a few others as well. Just for fun! I’ll text David the details while you do so.”
“Um…are you sure?” I ask, feeling a tad wary. I’ve always imagined inviting my mother and maybe a friend or two to my dress fitting.
But this isn’t a real wedding, anyway, and Charles has good taste. He’ll know what a royal wedding dress is supposed to look like. Even for a not-so-royal bride.
I owe it to the kingdom to look the part. And I’m sure the press will eat it up.
And who am I kidding? This will be the most fun I’ve had in years. I’m giddy just thinking about it.
I’d never be able to shop here without David’s expense account. I’d also be crazy to turn down a shopping trip like this, even if it’s just for fun. I think my mother would agree.
“Hell, why not! I mean, if you don’t mind doing that. I would love to try on a few dresses,” I tell Charles.
He ushers me into the store, and the staff immediately swarms us, eager to get David’s appointment on the calendar and a pile of dresses in my arms. I walk to the fitting room and settle in, gazing at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The lighting is soft and forgiving—much better than the fluorescent lights where I usually shop.
Once a season, l indulge and purchase a designer handbag or other statement piece so that I can blend in with my wealthy clientele. Like I’ve boasted about before.
But I might not have mentioned that I also pair the bag or accessory with a cheap black dress or a simple skirt in a classic cut that’s unlikely to go out of style. It’s sensible and smart, really. What good businesswoman wouldn’t do that?
And if you think keeping up with the Joneses is difficult, try keeping up with the royal family.
Besides, no one is asking to see my bank statement here. They obviously know who I’m with.
The salesperson helps me slip the billowing skirt over my head and tugs it down. I’m lucky that the sample size is close to my own with the curves that I’ve been blessed with. Though I have to admit, the dress on the showroom floor looks even better on me than it does on the mannequin.
I float out of the dressing room to look at the dress in the larger mirrors outside.
Then, Charles sees me. He gasps. “Why, Vivienne! That wedding gown looks like it was made for you. It’s lovely.”
Is it just me, or are there tears forming in his eyes?
“How about accessories?” I ask. “Do I need a veil? A tiara? I’m not sure what I’m supposed to wear to a royal wedding.”
It’s like I’ve floated out of my body, watching myself lose my grip on reality. I swear, it’s like the magical bridal dust warped my view and now has me believing for a second that this is real.
And damn it, Charles is not helping.
He smiles at me, patiently. “It will be some combination of the two, so let’s start with a couple of different lengths to see what works best with the shape of your face and your gown.”
“Okay. How about this one?” I point to an ivory veil that looks grand but not too frilly. The salesperson gently attaches the veil to my hair with delicate combs, and when I turn around to look at my reflection once more, I start crying, too. “This is beautiful. I love it.”
Charles looks thoughtfully at me before he speaks. “May I be frank with you, Vivienne?”
“When have you not?” I laugh. “What is it?”
My heart is pounding. Is this one of those moments when I’ve misjudged what the royal family considers to be fashionable? Or am I just being crazy? Though I’ve been studying their tastes, how they act, and what their hobbies are for long enough that it’ll be odd if I’m wrong, but shit happens.
I wait for his answer with baited breath.
“Seeing you in this veil makes me wish you two really do get married.”
I turn red with embarrassment. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better…or look less ridiculous right now.”
Charles shakes his head. “It’s not my job to make you or anyone else feel better. My loyalty is with the King.”
He stands beside me and adjusts my veil so that it flows over my shoulders.
“I see how he looks at you,” he continues. “And in this gown, the whole world will see what he sees.”
“Do you really think so?” I look at my reflection and try to see myself as a Queen, but all I see is a commoner in a Queen’s wedding dress.
Charles gives me a fatherly smile. “Don’t tell David I told you this, but I think you two are more perfect for each other than you realize.”
Chapter 17
David
Where the fuck have you been, man? Scott texts me. This is one of the many texts he sent earlier this morning. And when I say morning, I mean two or three in the morning, his usual prowling time.
I’ve been mute since the last video he sent me, with the busty blonde, so I get his urgency. But I’m not intentionally trying to ignore him; I just have a fuck ton of shit to do. I’m fucking King, it’s just now that I’m actually acting like it.
That’s also one of the many things Vivienne is good at: keeping me busy, and in all sorts of ways. Some, admittedly, more pleasurable than others.
Like today, for instance. Our plans are fucking torture. It pains me to even say what we’re doing…
Fucking wedding planning.
What man likes to do this shit? Especially me, seeing as it’s the last fucking thing I thought I’d be doing…ever.
But, here I am. Somehow, she just knows how to persuade me into doing things I loathe, and I don’t even see it coming. That’s how good she is.
Charities and galas are one thing, because they include unlimited distractions, an open bar, and some mindless entertainment. And the feeling of gratification makes it all worth it.
But this shit, it requires too much fucking commitment and time.
“What do you think, white or red roses? Or both?” She presents each rose to me, like it’s a decision that’ll end all wars.
I shrug. “It’s a rose.” Sorry, I just don’t give a fuck.
I look back down at my phone, trying to distract myself from this nonsense. Maybe I should just let Scott know I’m alive. I can’t ghost the motherfucker; he’d go fucking crazy.
I glance up and watch Vivienne smell both the roses…literally, she’s smelling the roses.
Fuck, she’s too into this. She looks like a woman in love, and that worries me. But she chooses to ignore my callous answer and turns back to the two wedding planners.
“I think we should do white only. Perhaps add some hydrangeas?” She continues to describe floral arrangements to the women in plaid, and I zone out.
Who cares about what fucking flowers look like? They’ll die the next day anyway.
I walk to the other side of the ballroom, which I do have to admit is a gorgeous venue.
For someone who doesn’t abide by the rules often, St. James Palace is a tradition in my family I didn’t want to break. Call me old-fashioned, but it’s where everyone in my lineage said their I do’s, so I figured we should, too.
There’s some guilt in knowing that my wedding is a sham and not an actual ceremony like the others, but at least I’m doing one thing accordingly, right? No one has to know, other than the few of us.
I’m here, man. Been busy with, you know, King shit, I respond to Scott.
“David, come here. We need to go through the procession. Who will walk me down? Perhaps Charles?”
I open my mouth to speak, but she interrupts me—
“Oh, wait, no. He’s your best man. Hmm…” She continues and paces the length of the ballroom, contemplating who the fuck will walk her down the aisle at our fake wedding.
I go to her and pull her by the elbow, keeping her close to me to ensure she’ll be the only one who can hear me.
“You know this doesn’t matter, right? It just has to look good. Believable.” I emphasize the last word, hoping she’ll understand that we’re
not doing this because we love each other—we’re doing to this to make the world believe we do.
At least that’s what I’ve been told. It’s a hefty order, but one that we shouldn’t be taking so damn seriously.
And I feel like Vivienne is doing just that. She’s seems to be caring too much about this.
I’m not sure if this is how she does business, but it seems…
She looks up at me, and her eyes widen. She looks hurt.
What the fuck?
I step back, gauging her reaction. Her mouth falls, and I can feel her body sag against me. It’s like I just popped a balloon, all the joy and hope keeping it afloat escaping, making it now limp and lifeless.
This is not good.
She knows this is fake. This is not me breaking up with her, because, fuck, there’s nothing to break!
“It’s just business. We do have to act the part, though. That’s what I’m doing. It’d be nice if you did the same,” she snaps, but the words come out too sharply, almost like they’re piercing through her skin, causing her physical pain.
She tugs herself away from me and heads back to the planners. They continue to gab over whatever the fuck, and I’m standing there, feeling like I just got punched in the fucking gut.
She might be saying that this is just business and that she’s just playing along, but her body is contradicting her words.
Shit. I run my hands through my hair, frustrated that I let this fucking happen. In some respects, I knew exactly what I was doing. I wanted her—fuck, I still want her. But only in the most primal way…right?
Yes, I’ve had fun with her. Ever since she got here…no, shit, even before it. She’s made my days so much lighter and, dare I say, fun. I’ve actually started to enjoy going to these events and becoming the King that I never thought I’d be.
But she can’t be confusing the two worlds, can she? I’m finding it hard to see where the real her ends and the fake fiancée begins, and that fucking terrifies, no, infuriates, me.
Why didn’t I see this sooner? We could’ve stopped fucking. Hah, yeah, okay, maybe not that, but we’ve could’ve at least discussed more ground rules.
